


Skulls & Brains

by Succi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mystery, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succi/pseuds/Succi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pathologist, a consulting detective, a few attempts at asking someone out, a dead bride, flowers, coffee and a lot more. And all of this told from the POVs of Billy the skull and Helen Louise, the brain Molly is dissecting in TSoT. Spoilers up to and including TSoT. – T to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brain meets Brainy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Pathologist and The Brain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299792) by [Succi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succi/pseuds/Succi). 



> This one needs a bit of an explanation (BORING, I know…): Some time ago I wrote a One Shot called The Pathologist and the Brain, staring Sherlolly, but told from the POV of Helen Louise, the brain Molly is dissecting in TSoT.  
> One of the lovely reviews was Woovian telling me she was shipping Helen Louise and Billy the skull. Somehow the idea of this pairing wouldn’t leave my head. So this story is told from the POVs of Helen Louise and Billy. I took the beginning (altered it a bit) from The Pathologist and the Brain and then continued differently (about halfway through the chapter).  
> So if you’re interested in TPatB have a look (shameless self-promotion), but it’s not required for understanding this one.  
> So thanks to Whoovian for the initial inspiration – I hope you’ll like this one as well! 
> 
> Spoilers up to (including) TSoT – But takes place before the actual episode and goes a bit AU from there.  
> For the sake of the story we pretend that Tom doesn’t exist   
> The thoughts and voice of Helen Louise are in italics.  
> English is not my native tongue, and I’m way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own them so please don't sue.

**Helen Louise’s POV**

 

Helen Louise had not been exceptionally clever, but she had not been stupid either. Unfortunately she had not been clever enough not to drink the poison her former best friend had given her. Well, it was too late now, wasn’t it?

 

So it happened that the body of Helen Louise now lay on an autopsy table at St. Bartholomew’s Pathology covered with a white sheet. But a part from her body was missing. To be precise it was her brain. The pathologist in charge had taken it out of the skull and put it into a metal bowl to have a closer look at it – at the brain, not the bowl of course.

 

Said pathologist was holding the bowl firmly in her hands and told its content, ”Well, Helen Louise, let’s see what you can tell me.”

Apparently the brain had inherited the name of its owner.

 _But if I am called Helen Louise now, does that mean that the arms and legs are called Helen Louise as well?_ But the brain didn’t bother. She had never had a proper name before. _So why not?_

The brunette woman touched Helen Louise gently with a finger. It tickled. The pathologist nodded and scribbled something on a chart.

Helen Louise liked the pathologist. She was gentle while handling her, and she even talked to her. Sure, that was a bit odd. But the brain liked the sound of her voice. She seemed to trust the brain, because she had told her about some new doctor who was her boss for a short period of time while her regular boss was sick. His name was Dr Winthrop and he seemed to be quite a prick, because he ordered the pathologist around all the time.

After the pathologist had ended her rant, Helen Louise realised the woman was humming something. She knew the tune but couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t so easy to think out of a body as one might believe. 

After finishing the writing, the doctor took something in her hand and put on some goggles, which made her look cute in an odd way.

Now the brain recognised the tune: It was the Bridal Chorus. Now she had to admit the petite pathologist was definitely a little weird. _I mean, humming a wedding song while mixing a brain... WHAT?!_ Now Helen Louise realised what the pathologist was holding in her hand: it was a hand-held blender. _Where had that come from, and what does she want to do with it?_ _Stupid question! You know exactly what she is about to do!_ Suddenly the doctor didn’t seem so nice anymore.

The mixer was coming closer. And she was still humming the merry wedding melody! Helen Louise cried out for help, trying to persuade her not to do it, but the pathologist couldn’t hear her. **_That_** _will be the end of me? A greasy puddle in a metal bowl? Hopefully the mushy remains of me will tell you something important, doctor!_ Just as the last pictures of the slideshow that had been Helen Louises’ life flashed before the brains’ eyes (figuratively speaking of course), the doors to the morgue opened and in came a tall man with dark curls and an expensive looking coat that few behind him like a cape. Helen Louise couldn’t have pictured a better saviour.

The pathologist stopped descending the mixer into the bowl, switched it off and looked up to the mysterious man. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with glee. Obviously Helen Louise wasn’t the only one being happy that the stranger entered the morgue... _Interesting._

”Hi Sherlock!” the pathologist greeted after clearing her throat.

_What kind of name is that?!_

“Hello Molly.” The voice of her saviour was a rich deep baritone, but devoid of emotion. Helen Louise couldn’t tell if he was happy to see the woman – whose name seemed to be Molly – or if he plain didn’t care. The doctor lifted the goggles off her face.

The man took a look at the brain and it felt small under his intense gaze, his eyes studying it like under a microscope. His eyes had a mealy shade of blue Helen Louise had never seen before. It stood in wide contrast to his dark hair. He turned back to Molly.

“What are you doing with it?” _Hey mister, I’m not an **It**! I have a name! _

“I was just about to blitz it to make samples. That’s Helen Louise.”

_At least she introduced me._

Sherlock nodded, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary that the pathologist named the brain.

When he didn’t say anything more, Molly asked, “Why are you here? Can I help you with something?”

“I just need to check up on my cultures. Keep working on your brain.” _I am not **her** brain! I am my own brain, and… What?! No! You are supposed to be my hero in shining armour, or coat... so keep her distracted!_

Although Helen Louise thought the tall man would walk away now and leave her at the mercy of the weird pathologist, he did not budge. He still stood beside Molly and eyed her curiously while her gaze was focused on the table, probably looking for the mixer again. His stare was very odd. He opened his mouth, but closed it again without saying something. He raked his hands through his curls, which seemed like a frustrated ( _or maybe nervous?)_ gesture. He sighed and Molly turned around. She looked surprised finding him still in the same spot next to her. Her eyes narrowed a little and her face showed slight worry.

“Sherlock, are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?”

For a second Helen Louise thought he looked touched by her concern, but his features moved back into the blank mask so quickly, the brain was not sure if she’d only imagined it. The pathologist seemed to have had the same thought.

Sherlock spoke up again, “Actually you could do something for me. Coffee would be nice.” The last sentence was topped with a smile which was obviously fake.

The pathologist looked disappointed. “Sure.”

Her shoulders hunched and she walked away.

 _Ok, I’m glad he sent her away so her mixing with me will be delayed, but what kind of macho is that?! Can’t you get your own coffee? You have feet and hands and you seem to know your way around. That was really not nice and..._ But Helen Louise had to stop mid-thought. As soon as Molly left, this Sherlock guy had **THAT** look again. The same he had had before when she hadn’t been looking at him. He looked troubled. There was clearly something on his mind, and it had something to do with the petite pathologist. He sighed deeply and walked over to a table where he sat down at a microscope.  

The man pulled off his coat and laid it over one of the empty autopsy tables.

_I don’t think that’s hygienic…_

He didn’t seem to care. His demeanour in general was very captivating – in a sophisticated and posh kind of way. One could say he was smug. But there was something beneath his cool surface that piqued Helen Louise’s interest.

Before long Molly was back with two steaming mugs of coffee. She put one down on the table next to Sherlock. _He is really rude. He doesn’t even thank her._ For the pathologist it must have seemed like he didn’t even acknowledge her, but when she turned around to walk back over to Helen Louise, the brain could see how his gaze was following her every move and how it had cost him effort to keep his eyes fixed on the microscope when she had put the mug down beside him. Helen Louise was sure he didn’t even know what the sample was, he was supposedly studying.

Molly put her coffee down as well, put the goggles back on and took the mixer in hand. As she switched it on, she started to hum The Bridal Chorus again. Helen Louise could see the mixer descending down on her again and could feel its puff produced by the rotation. _Well, that’s it then. As a soundtrack I would have preferred the Ride of the Valkyries, but what can you do… Goodbye world!_

Again Helen Louise was saved by the handsome man. This time it was his voice that brought the doctor to a halt.

“Seriously?”

“What?” was her eloquent reply. She laid the mixer back down on the table and looked over to Sherlock. He was turned towards her.

“You are singing The Bridal Chorus from Wagner, Molly. Why?”

The petite woman turned a bright shade of red. Her singing had obviously been unconscious. She stared at her shoes.

“I guess I’m just looking forward to the wedding.” Nervously she moved from one foot to the other. That seemed to be no answer for the man, so he got up and walked over to stand beside her again.

“I don’t see why you should.”

Molly looked up at him through her goggles.

“What do you mean?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Helen Louise could see that the pathologist regretted asking. She seemed to steel herself for whatever was coming. _But **what** was coming?_

Sherlock’s intense gaze flickered over her once and then he stated in a very fast way, so that Helen Louise felt as if the mixing had already taken place.

“You are not in a relationship, as you apparently don’t bother with make up or nice clothes. You left in a hurry today, because you overslept. You read until after midnight yesterday – some soppy romance novel I suppose. You were clearing your throat before speaking to me. I’m the first person you have been talking to so far. Since you use to live alone you are talking to your cat. And the only words you have spoken today before I came in were directed at that brain in the bowl. And you won’t go out on a date tonight, given by the state of your attire. Therefore it’s highly unlikely you will have someone to attend the wedding with. Hence I don’t see why you should be looking forward to a social event, where you are expected to attend with a partner when you will be going alone. Additionally I prefer the Wedding March from Felix Mendelsohn Bartholdy. It’s way more buoyantly than Wagner.”

 _What?! He only knows all these things by just looking at her? I want to be alone in the storage room with his brain! NOW!_ _Still, how is that possible? Maybe he is a telepath? But that would mean, he can hear what I’m thinking. I should censor my thoughts!_

But when Helen Louise saw the shocked face of Molly, she felt sorry for her. True, the words had been very hurtful.

Molly swallowed hard and did her best to stand up straight. “I’m happy for John and Mary.” Then something crossed her mind. “And you don’t have a date as well.” He didn’t answer, but surprisingly the corners of his mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile. _What’s going on here? All of that feels really surreal, like an out-of-body-experience. But wait, that’s exactly what it is!_

The pathologist seemed confused by his expression as well. Finally he said, “Unlike you, I’m not looking forward to it.” “I didn’t expect you to.”

Now a crooked smile formed on his face. Molly was obviously nervous. Helen Louise could feel that there was more unsaid than said between the weird couple. There seemed to be a whole unspoken conversation going on between the two minds of them and the third brain in the room felt left out.

Suddenly the pathologist seemed to remember something. She crossed her arms in front of her chest in a defensive gesture. “You need to talk about having no interlocutor: You’re talking to a skull!” His look clearly transported that he hadn’t meant to insult her with his statement. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. It was just an observation. I find Billy quite helpful at times.” _I reckon Billy is the name of the skull. If Billy has only an ounce of intelligence of this Sherlock, I want to meet him. Billy would understand how it feels to be separated from your body._

Before Helen Louise could think more about Billy the skull, she realized that Molly’s eyes had softened. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, will you come to the wedding with me, Molly?”

“Of course, I’m invited.” “No, I mean…” The man shifted uncomfortably. It was clear he had no idea how to proceed. His gaze darted away and landed on Helen Louise. But the brain knew he was not really looking at her, but desperately trying to look anywhere but at HER.

Just as he was about to explain himself, the doors of the morgue burst open once more and in came another man. But this one didn’t look like my saviour at all: He was quite small (for a man at least), had blondish hair and soft eyes. He may not be as impressive as this Sherlock guy, but he just rayed out confidence and trust. _Still I’d like to give him a head-butt, because this feels like one of those sappy romance movies, where every time something interesting is about to happen, someone walks in onto the lovers._

The pair jumped apart – they hadn’t noticed how close they were standing together. The blond man looked confused.

“Am I interrupting something?” Both answered simultaneously.

“No.” “Yes.”

_You can imagine who said what. I agree with Sherlock. You **do** interrupt! _

The intruder cleared his throat.

“Well, Lestrade called me to meet him here. There should be a body coming in.” Sherlock seemed a little sulky. “He called **you**? Why didn’t he call me? “He said he sent you a text, but you didn’t answer.” Sherlock walked over to his coat on the autopsy table and retrieved the mobile out of his pocket. He probably scanned though his texts and then nodded. The pathologist spoke up again, while lifting the goggles off her face “What does it say?” The man put the phone back into his coat pocket. “Not much, just that he wants to meet me here for a new case. I’d say it’s a six.” Molly’s brows furrowed. “You can tell that just by some short text?” _What are they talking about? What case? Are they some kind of CSI-London? And do I get this right: Mr curly hair is rating the case?!_

Before my saviour could answer though, the doors of the morgue opened again and in came a grey haired men. He smiled at everyone in the room (especially Molly – _You don’t have a chance mate, she’s into Mr case-rater!_ ) “Oh great, my whole gang is assembled,” he said und then addressed everyone in person. “Molly. John. And Sherlock, I’m glad you could make it.” It was impossible to miss the playful sarcasm in his last sentence.

_So I see: The name of the blond man is John. If I’d had to guess I’d said his name was James._

Sherlock’s voice was bored, “We’re not **your** gang, Lestrade. If we were to be a gang – which we’re not – I’d be the leader, clearly.”

_One can’t say he lacks confidence... Great, now I know the names of every person in the room: Molly, Sherlock, John and Lestrade – God, I hope that’s his surname. Although it wouldn’t be worse than ‘Sherlock’…_

The doors to the left opened and a young man – probably one of the interns – wheeled in a gurney with a black bag on it – the typical body bag one knows from films.

_A shiver runs down my spine. Well, figuratively speaking of course. Maybe it’s better so say ‘an electric shudder went through my cerebellum’._

The intern brought the table to a halt in the middle of the room. The pathologist thanked him and he left. “I guess that’s the body you’re here for, Greg?” Molly asked while walking over to it.

_Wait, who’s Greg?_

“Yes,” answered the Lestrade guy and all three men followed the petite woman to the autopsy table.

_Good, Lestrade is really his surname. Greg… nice, short name, easy to remember._

The pathologist opened the body bag and suddenly loads of white, satin fabric gushed out. When she had finished her task, everyone stared at the body on the autopsy table in disbelieve. Well, everyone except Sherlock. His face was as expressionless as ever.

For some time nobody said anything.

_I can relate to their inability to speak – and not only because of the fact that I am mouth-less._

Surprisingly Molly was the one to break the silence, “Oh my God, she looks like Julia Roberts!” “Who?” asked Sherlock. “She’s an actress, who…”But Molly could not explain, because she was interrupted by Lestrade.

“That’s our Runaway Bride.” Sherlock chided, “That’s an incorrect use of the term. To be a runaway bride, she’d… Oh I see… This is a reference to something.”

“It’s a movie with said actress. Julia Roberts plays a woman who repeatedly flees the church, because…” Again the pathologist was cut off; this time by Sherlock. “That’s why I don’t know it. It’s useless rubbish.” “True.” The John guy looked quite surprised by that statement from the pathologist, while Sherlock only nodded and suggested, “You better call her the Corpse Bride.” _That was funny! Why is nobody laughing?_

Everyone was just staring incredulously at Sherlock. “Did you just make a reference to a film?” asked John in disbelieve. “Which film?” my hero in Belstaff asked clueless. _Oh, that’s why nobody is laughing…_  

Lestrade exhaled audibly and explained, “This is Mrs Beverly Melrose and as you can see she’d been killed at her own wedding.”

_So much for ‘until death do you part…’_

Sherlock had moved to examine the body. He leaned down to take a closer look with the help of a magnifying glass. _The modern one’s by far not as cool as the old ones._ Then he leaned even closer and took a deep sniff. _Gross!_ The others didn’t find anything unusual about this behaviour. Sherlock said, “She was poisoned.” It was not a question. Nevertheless Lestrade answered, “Yes. She was not the only victim. Her father had been beaten to death. We presume with a hard object.” Sherlock snorted. “Of course it was a hard object. You can’t batter someone to death with a pushy!” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Whatever. His body should be here anytime soon.” Finally John joined the conversation, “Do you have a suspect?” Greg looked troubled. “A whole wedding reception of suspects.” The smile John gave him spoke of empathy. “I guess you want us to talk to them?” Greg pointed to Sherlock and John. “I hoped you’d have a look at the crime scene and see what you can deduce. But John, if you’ve got a problem with that I…” John cut him off. “Why should I?” He was genuinely confused. Sherlock went go grab his coat and explained while passing the three people to head towards the door, “Because it’s about a murder on a wedding and you’re about to marry.” With that he was out of the morgue.

_He hasn’t even bothered to say goodbye to Molly and they all act as if that’s normal. Well, it seems to be…_

John put a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “I don’t have a problem with it, mate. As long as there’s no murder on **my** wedding… But thanks for considering.” Lestrade only nodded. John turned around to Molly who had already begun to remove the wedding gown methodically. “We’ll have to catch up with Sherlock, before he makes the whole wedding party cry. See you later, Molls!” She looked up from the dead bride on her table. “Good idea. I’ll text you as soon as I get some result. Bye.” “Thanks, Molly.” Greg smiled at her and the two men left the morgue as well.

As soon as the doors had closed again Helen Louise could hear the pathologist hum again. This time it was the wedding march.   


**TBC**


	2. The Afterlife of Billy the Skull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter it from Billy’s POV. His thoughts and voice are in italics.

**Billy’s POV**

Billy the skull had expected that afterlife would be fluffy clouds, firestorms or even the reincarnation into a worm, but not **that**. He hadn’t expected to end up on a mantelpiece in the flat of a high functional sociopath.

Billy couldn’t really remember how he ended up here. His previous owner – if you want to call him that – had been a nice, but boring fellow at the end of the 19th century. How he had died, he did not really know. One moment he had been walking down the street of Whitechapel, the next there had been a blinding white light and then darkness – a long darkness. And the next thing he could remember was seeing darkness as well, but this time it was dark curly hair attached to the head of his new owner: Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes, consulting detective. He had taken him out of a box with his elegant fingers, put him on a mantelpiece and given him the name Billy. Billy didn’t know why he had called him that (he was sure it hadn’t been the name of his previous owner), but he didn’t object (not that he really could), because he liked the name.

It had taken some time for Billy to accommodate to this modern time. He was from an era when men still wore hats and women long dresses. _And now everyone it quite… naked. And all this things like TV and computers – there are **actual** naked women in there! _

Somehow Sherlock Holmes seemed to be an old soul and maybe that was why Billy soon felt at home in 221B.

At first it had only been the two of them and the skull had mostly been the consulting detective’s only interlocutor – apart from the times that his elder brother Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella showed up. _Honestly, what kind of names are Sherlock and Mycroft?! I mean, what were their parents thinking? But then, I remember one of my former owner’s best friends at the East India Club was called Rudyard._

Although Billy had liked their privacy he somehow had known that Sherlock had craved living company – although he would have never admitted it, not even to Billy.

So one evening when Billy couldn’t stand his owner torturing his violin anymore, he had shouted out to him to get a pet. Obviously the consulting detective had heard him, because the day after that he had brought John Watson home with him.

Billy had liked the army doctor from the start. He was friendly, good-hearted and even able to teach Sherlock Holmes some manners. John had started to help the consulting detective with solving crimes and wrote a blog ( _another one of those new inventions_ ) about it. _I have heard it should be much more interesting than the one of Sherlock Holmes._ That’s how Baker Street now was home to three bachelors.

The style of the flat was… unconventional to say the least. It was a mixture of antique books and globes and modern equipment. The thing that Billy detested the most was the skull print on the opposite wall. _I mean, what should that be? It’s neither a good portrait (the proportions are totally wrong) nor so disfigured that you could call it abstract. It is some weird pop-art-in-between-thing. When I was still with my previous owner, art was still art! But all this modern stuff that calls itself “art”…_    

Since the consulting detective had an interesting job and was himself quite intriguing, it was never boring in 221B. Billy even had company most of the time: hands, ears, eyeballs and one time even a head (although the boring army doctor made Sherlock bring the head back to the morgue, because it was ‘not hygienic to store it in the fridge’… _I mean, where else should one put it?_ _Don’t worry, Sherlock was not some necrophiliac or a necromancer (that would **really** be interesting!), no, he brought the limbs home for experiments for his work and writes blog entries about it. I haven’t read any of those, but I heard they should be slumberous._

So Billy the skull enjoyed his afterlife in 221B – apart from the not-housekeeper Mrs Hudson who repeatedly tried to put him back into the dark box where he had come from. But after she had found the head in the fridge, she had realized that there were more unhygienic things in the flat than a clean skull (Billy put emphasis on body hygiene).

And then **it** happened: His beloved, lunatic owner was gone – and if one was to believe the talking (more chocked sobbing than talking, really), he was gone for good. That had been when life in Baker Street had gotten boring as hell.

At first Billy had waited for John Watson to return, but he did not. Then the skull had begun to worry that the flat would find new tenants and he may find his final resting place at the waste utilization plant. But this also didn’t happen. Nobody came – ever. Not John, not Mrs not-housekeeper, not the grey haired detective, not even the mousy pathologist who had an infatuation with the (supposedly) dead consulting detective. (Billy liked the pathologist, because she had always petted him, when she had been in Baker Street.)

That’s why in the two years of the absence of Sherlock Holmes, Billy the skull had been bored to death (no pun intended). During this time Billy had counted all the dark chocolate fleurs de lys on the wallpaper ( _76_ ) and in the end he had been convinced that the yellow smiley-face on the wall was mocking him. _I can totally understand now why Sherlock was shooting at it!_

He had tried to have some conversations with the antelope skull on the wall, but that turned out to be fruitless, since it could not hear him due to the earphones. So although he had felt mocked by it, Billy had begun to talk to the yellow smiley-face, knowing it was just as useless, but none the less it had given him a warm feeling. One could not deny the irony: Sherlock talking to a skull, whose language he did not understand, and Billy talking to a smiley-face who could not answer.  

And then, one fine day, Mrs Hudson and John Watson had walked in and had opened the curtains. John had told her that he was about to marry.

_A woman! Who would have thought that?!_

And a day after that his sociopathic owner had come back – waltzing into 221B including Belstaff, curly hair and cheekbones (Billy had always been a little jealous of Sherlock’s cheekbones).

They all had come back: The detective inspector and the petite pathologist ( _still in love with Sherlock)_. The weird little family was complete again.

It didn’t go amiss with Billy that Sherlock Holmes had changed in the two years of his absence – he was now nicer in some ways.

Whilst it was only him and Billy in the flat again ( _John living with his fiancée Mary – a nice addition to the family_ ), Sherlock seemed to cope with it. John Watson visited often and Mrs Hudson came upstairs more frequently. Sherlock and John solved case after case and the day of John’s wedding drew nearer.

One day Sherlock Holmes had just brought home an eyeball – with whom Billy had an interesting conversation about different point of views in life ( _that was until Sherlock burned Steve the eyeball - who always said he wanted to be called an ‘ocular bulb’ - with a Bunsen burner_ ) – and John Watson had asked him to be his best man. The consulting detective had been shocked, but accepted. And from that day onwards, Billy noticed another changes in his owner. He had always been weird, but lately it had gotten worse; the weirdest thing being Sherlock Holmes youtubeing how to fold swans and the Sidney Opera house out of serviettes. That was the point where Billy the skull had begun to worry about the mental wellbeing of his owner.

Billy was just thinking about what could be going on in the complex mind of the consulting detective, as the door to the flat opened and said man strode in followed by his blogger who didn’t look pleased at all. _Looks like they have been on a crime scene._

Sherlock threw his coat over the armrest of the sofa and popped himself down dramatically, massaging his temples. John seemed to prefer to keep standing and his coat on. He crossed his arms. “Sherlock, that was not really necessary.” “Define necessary.” John rolled his eyes. “You know exactly what I mean! It was a wedding and the bride and the bride’s father have died. Everyone is in shock and you are insulting the family by criticising the choice of flower decoration.” Sherlock put his hands down and snorted. “But it **was** absolutely hideous!” “The Lily of the Valley is a typical wedding flower. It stands for purity.” “See, totally incongruous for **this** bride. Additionally they’re poisonous. I don’t see what’s romantic about that.” Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, while John went into the kitchen, filled himself a glass of water and took a sip.

_So far this seems to be a most interesting case: a double murder at a wedding; and this so soon before the Watson wedding… exciting! And I totally agree with Sherlock: Lily of the valley is the most boring wedding flower ever!_

John came back in der sitting room. “So, you’ve already got an idea?” _The water seems to have cooled him down a bit._ John sat down in his chair. _He’s not living here anymore, so theoretically it’s not **his** chair anymore. By the way: When do **I** get a chair?! _ The consulting detective mumbled, “Six ideas so far.” The doctor looked at him expectantly. When Sherlock decided to remain silent, John pressed, “Care to elaborate?” The consulting detective opened his eyes. His voice was bored, “The murder of the bride was planned. The one of the father was a spur of the moment thing. Maybe it was the husband. Statistically speaking he is the most likely one.” John was bedside himself. “But he wouldn’t kill his wife on their wedding day!” Sherlock’s eyes went heavenwards. He had this tone one uses to explain something to a child. “I’m not talking about the bride. I’m talking about the father. The bride was obviously killed by a woman. Killing someone by poison is typical of a female murderer.” John cocked his head to the side, and there was a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “I thought you don’t believe in such generalisations?” “Balance of probability, my dear Watson.” _He should address him like that more often, that sounds funny._ The army doctor didn’t seem to agree with Billy, because he drew a face. Sherlock’s phone went off indicating a new text. He looked at it and said, “Molly’s got the results.” Without waiting for an answer from John, he got up, retrieved his coat and went outside. His blogger sighed deeply, put down the glass on the couch table ( _Mrs not-housekeeper will be cross with you for not using a coaster!_ ) and left the flat as well. _That’s how interesting conversations usually end in 221B: Sherlock Holmes rushing off, John Watson following and me staying behind body- and clueless._  

 

**TBC**


	3. Flower Power

**Helen Louise’s POV**

_Quite a lot has happened to me in the last 24 hours of my not-life. I’ve been separated from my body (literally), almost cut into pieces (also literally) and met four of the weirdest people in London. The first one being a morbid-sweet pathologist, the second one a curly haired sociopath (at least that’s what I’d say he is), the third one a good-hearted guy that somehow seems to be connected to the sociopath and the fourth one a grey haired man who supplies the others with corpses. Quite a lot to cope with, don’t you think?_

_While the pathologist had done the post mortems, she had been interrupted by some phone calls and visits from other employees. Through that I could figure out more about my four new friends: Molly fancied the Sherlock guy, clearly. Sherlock had tried to ask her out to the wedding (which she didn’t get) and then went as cold as ice, as if he had all but forgotten about her. He is a consulting detective – I don’t know what that is, and I’m tempted to say he made that title up himself. I figure he helps the police investigating crimes. Which leads us to Greg Lestrade: He is a DI and obviously in need of Sherlock’s help. That only leaves John: I don’t really see what his part in all of this really is. He seems to be like an assistant to the consulting detective, and they seem to be friends as well. So far so good._

_After it had been clear that Molly had to perform two post mortems, she had put me into some kind of freezer cabinet. It’s pretty cold in here, but it’s got a glass window, so I can still see what’s going on, although the voices are a little muffled. Molly has texted one of them her results and is now waiting for them to return and…_

The swing doors opened and in came the consulting detective followed by his assistant. Molly looked up from her paperwork and got up to meet them in the middle of the room. “Hello.” She smiled sweetly and maybe a little nervous. 

John was about to greet her as well, when Sherlock stated in his brusque tone, “You said you got some results.” Molly’s smile faltered, but didn’t drop altogether.

_She seems to be used to that kind of treatment._

“Yes.” She hurried over to where the bodies were. The two men followed. “Mr Pratt was beaten to death with a blunt object. I can’t really identify the weapon, but it must have been something with a flat surface. I couldn’t find any traces of hair or other organic fibres on him that could lead us to the murderer. As for our no-bride-to-be…” At that the pathologist smiled brightly, but her smile dropped the second she saw none of the men was joining her. _Oh come on, we’re in a morgue, if one’s not morbid in here then where else?!_ The pathologist went on, “Well, the female victim was poisoned with convallaria majalis, commonly known as lily of the valley.” Sherlock opened his mouth, but John beat him to it. ”Aren’t there quite conspicuous symptoms like vomiting and headache?” Molly looked alternatingly from one man to the other. Helen Louise noticed how confident the pathologist seemed when explaining medical stuff. _But then again, it’s her profession._ “Yes, other typical symptoms are blurry vision, disorientation, excessive salivation and diarrhoea. It wreaks havoc on your gastrointestinal, circulatory and nervous system. So the symptoms are not easy to hide.” John looked puzzled. “So why did no one notice?” “Because she excused herself.” Sherlock explained. The two other humans and the brain looked at him with a questioning gaze. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you even know how to conduct an interrogation, John?” But before his friend could answer, the consulting detective went on, “The maid of honour told me Mrs Melrose excused herself to the bathroom and on her way back…,” his voice trailed off. “She must have felt really dizzy, barely holding herself up. Did nobody encounter her on the way to the loo? Isn’t that highly unlikely?” Molly didn’t seem convinced.

_Ok, from what I’ve heard so far, the next guy that gets me a bouquet of lily of the valley can go… wait… I don’t think that I will ever get flowers again…_

Helen Louise’s thoughts were interrupted by the glow she caught in John’s eyes. “So she was poisoned by the flower decoration!” Sherlock snorted, “Don’t be ridiculous, John. It takes more than a handful of the flowers to kill someone. Additionally one would have noticed if the flower arrangements would have been ruined.” Molly chimed in again, “She ate it. It was in her stomach.” John’s mouth popped open. “What!? Voluntarily?” Sherlock sighed deeply and explained wryly, “It was in her soup. The soup on the menu was ramson soup. Lily of the valley is easily confused with ramson.” “So it was an accident.” “Of course not! Are you deliberately slow today, John?” John’s lips became a thin line. “Just think logically for once: If it had been accidental, all the soups would have been poisoned, not only the one of the bride. Thus it was deliberate.”

_Oh he really **is** intelligent. I love his logic! _

Silence settled. Everyone seemed lost in their thoughts. Molly was the one to break it, “So they used lily of the valley for the flower arrangements? How pretty!” She smiled dreamingly, as if picturing it mentally. It was a sharp contrast to Sherlock, who stared at her in disbelieve. “Really? You would pick lilies of the valley for your wedding?” Molly came back from her flower fantasy. Helen Louise could only detect a small amount of uncertainty in the pathologist’s voice, “Sure. They mean return of happiness. Besides, William and Kate had them at their wedding as well.” “Who?” Molly chuckled. “Nevermind.” Sherlock looked intently at her and stated, “I’d choose another flower for you.” Both Molly’s and John’s head snapped up to look flabbergasted at the consulting detective.

_Which flower would you choose? Tell us! And if you’ll say a cactus, I’m going to kill you!_

Helen Louise knew that Molly was trying to work up her courage to ask him which flower, when a voice interrupted them, “I heard there was an assembly down here.“

Everyone including Helen Louise turned towards the swing door to see who the owner of the voice was. It belonged to a man in his 50s, brown hair with a few grey strands in it. He wore a white lab coat and a hideous green shirt with an even more hideous green-purple tie underneath it. The moment Helen Louise saw him, she disliked him. The man walked over to the group of investigators. Molly’s shoulder slumped and she looked at her shoes.

The man in the white coat went on, “This is a morgue and not an assembly hall.” “Brilliant observation.” Sherlock’s words were dripping with sarcasm. The man stopped and turned to him, trying to reach his height by holding his head high. He didn’t succeed, and it only looked ridiculous. “Ah Sherlock Holmes, I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” “I honestly can’t say the same.” The consulting detective’s face was a cold mask as ever. The man turned to John. “And John Watson – the blogger and best friend.”

_John writes a blog?! I thought only teenage girls did that…_

John crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “Sorry, and you are?” “I’m Dr Winthrop. I’m in charge here until Mike Stamford is back. And I can tell you that things won’t be handled the way they were with Mike. There are certain rules **everyone** (at that he looked pointedly to Sherlock and Molly) has to obey. I’d like to discuss that now, before there will be further misunderstandings.”

_I knew I hated him!_

Dr Winthrop turned to Molly. “Dr Hooper make yourself useful and get us some coffee. This will take some time.” Although one could see the anger in Molly’s stance, she was about to follow his order, when Sherlock’s authoritative voice stopped her. “We’re on a case and don’t have the time for your infantile games of power. We are authorized to be here – if you don’t believe me, check it. And if you want some coffee, get it yourself. Dr Hooper is a pathologist, not a waitress. So get out! I can’t think with so much stupidity in the room!!” _Go Sherlock!_

Molly’s eyes were as big as saucers. John had to hide a smile. Dr Winthrop’s face grew red in anger. He opened his mouth to retort something, but the only thing that came out was a lame, “There will be consequences.” Then he stormed out.

Everyone stared at Sherlock. He sighed, “Oh John, shut up!” The blogger grinned, “I didn’t say anything.” The consulting detective groaned exasperatedly and left. John turned to the pathologist. “Did you hear that: You are not a waitress. Do you think he’ll get his own coffee from now on?” Molly chuckled. “No, I think he just likes me being **his** waitress.” _I think he’d like you to be more than that…_ John laughed. “Well, I’ll better get going being **his** blogger, see ya!”  

 

**TBC**


	4. The other assistant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos - I really appreciate it!!!

**Billy’s POV**

After Sherlock’s return from the “dead” John had refused to talk to him, hence the consulting detective had no one to help him with his cases. That was when Billy had seen the chance to become Sherlock’s new assistant. He may not have a brain, but he was **not** thick-skulled. ( _My bone density is just perfect, thank you!_ ) On the contrary, he was quite educated, although some of his opinions were a bit outdated. But what could you expect from a skull from the 19th century?

Since Billy could not leave the flat, he always had to put together the bits and pieces he got from conversations to figure out what the solution was. Therefore the skull saw himself to be predestined to help his owner with his detective work.

So when Sherlock had contacted the mousy pathologist after his return, Billy the skull had been sure he had done it to return a favour – maybe take her out to dinner. As it had turned out, she had thought so as well. But the two of them had been wrong. No, Sherlock Holmes had called her to ask her out on a case – if one could say so.

_What a weird way to return a favour – then again typical for Sherlock. He has never been good at saying ‘thank you’ and the petite pathologist is weird in her own way. What a pair!_

Therefore Billy had been a little sad and had felt a bit excluded for not being his owner’s first choice. But he had always liked Molly Hooper and she had seemed flattered that Sherlock had asked her.

_Still, I would have done a better job. I wouldn’t have needed to write something down. And we’re not talking about the fact that I’m physically not able to do so._

Thus he could have lived with the fact that Molly Hooper was the new assistant. But then John Watson was back in the picture – although not in the flat.

Billy could not help but notice that the whole time Molly Hooper had been here, his owner had not said a cruel thing to her. The skull figured it had something to do with the changes he had noticed within the detective. And from the way Billy had caught Sherlock watching Molly, when he had thought no one could see ( _But I see everything! And I do not only see, I observe as well!_ ) the skull was pretty sure those changes had something to do with the pathologist. It was yet to find out how much of the change was due to Molly Hooper and if Sherlock Holmes would acknowledge it sooner or later.

 Billy had been alone for the most of the day, the only visitor being Mrs Hudson, who felt the need to clean and even wipe a cleaning rag over the skull. That was something he hated. The rag always smelled of artificial lemon and that was a smell the skull detested – another thing he had in common with his owner.

 By the time the consulting detective and his best friend came back to the flat, the smell of the polish had almost been gone. Still Sherlock smelled it as soon as he entered the flat and drew a face. Billy could sympathise with him. _Consider yourself lucky, you haven’t been here a few hours ago! I nearly suffocated!_

Sherlock hung up his coat and started to pace. John kept his one on, but sat down in his chair and followed his friend with his eyes. “Sherlock, will you get your own coffee from now on?”   
The consulting detective stopped his pacing, but did not turn around to John. “What?”   
John shrugged and from the mischievous twinkle in his eyes Billy could see that he was teasing his friend. “I mean, because you’ve told Dr Winthrop Molly is not a waitress...”   
“Well, she is not. She’s a pathologist.” The irritation in Sherlock’s voice was unmistakable. His stance was stiff.   
“Yes.” John only smiled. He and Billy knew that their sociopathic friend would not want to go deeper into that topic. And he didn’t need to. Although Billy had not been present at the conversation with Dr Winthrop, he had a pretty good idea what this was all about: The ominous changes of the detective in regards to the petite pathologist.

The army doctor decided not to tease his friend anymore. He sat up on the edge of the chair and asked, “So, you’ve talked to the maid of honour? I hadn’t noticed you talking to anyone without me.” “There are a lot of things you don’t notice.” John rolled his eyes, but decided to not comment on it.

_Yes, talk about the case, I’m dying to know what’s happened to far!_

To Billy’s surprise Sherlock explained, “I met her on the way to the kitchen. Since she was the maid of honour, I knew she must’ve been sitting near the bride, so I thought it might be beneficial to ask her some questions. And as it turned out, I was right. Which is not at all surprising, don’t you think?” Finally he turned to look at his blogger. _He really can be a smug bastard at times..._  

John didn’t comment on that either, just nodded. Then something seemed to cross his mind and he changed the topic, "You’re gonna like Mary’s maid of honour.“   
“No I won’t.”   
“She’s thrilled to meet you.”   
“A lot of people are.”   
“Yes true, until they actually meet you.”  
Sherlock made a don’t-be-funny-face and started pacing again.

_I have to agree with our former flat mate. You are quite a challenge, Mister! And I should know that, I’ve spent most of my un-dead life with you!_

Sherlock started to mumble while pacing, “So far we know that the only ones who had seen the bride leave were the maid of honour, who told me Mrs Melrose faltered when she stood up and excused herself. The waitress said she hadn’t noticed anything suspicious, only that Mrs Melrose had asked her for a chewing gum, which would confirm that she had vomited. The bride’s murder was planned, so she must’ve been in the way, but why kill her father?“ John decided to make a dialogue out of his monologue, „You’ve said it had happened on impulse.”   
“Cleary, but why?” “Maybe the ex-boyfriend? He seemed quite jealous…”   
“But why should he kill the father?” Sherlock sounded almost angry. John threw his arms in the air. “I don’t know, Sherlock, I’m just juggling with theories.” Sherlock’s pacing became faster with each step. “The husband... didn’t you notice how he... no of course you didn’t notice.” Sherlock stopped.   
John got up. “Sherlock, if you need someone to insult, you can use the skull, because I’m going home.”  
 _Hey, that was not nice! You can’t just take the easy way out and disappear to your fiancée! Be a man, stay and take the blame! And don’t just call me “the skull”, because I have a name! Otherwise I’ll start calling you “the human”!_

Before John could reach the door, Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “I need to talk to the husband once more. Where does he live?” “I don’t know, I...”

“Well, then call…,” he hesitated. “Lestrade,” he finally said.   
“His name is **Greg**.” Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “If he wants me to remember his name, he should wear a name tag.” John sighed and took the mobile out of his pocket and pressed a button.

_How convenient to have a detective inspector of New Scotland Yard on speed dial._

Sherlock stood by his side looking at him. “Greg, it’s me.”

_Why do people still say that? Even **I** know that there is such a thing as caller identification nowadays, and even if there weren’t how would it help to say: “It’s me.”? I mean, who is “me”? _

“I’d need the address of Mr Melrose, we need to talk to him once more.” There was silence for a moment and John indicated for Sherlock to get pen and paper. He rolled his eyes ( _translates to: can’t you even remember an address?!_ ) and retrieved the two items from the table and handed them to his assistant. John clamped the phone between his shoulder and ear and wrote the address down. “Thanks Greg. We’ll keep you informed.” A pause. “No, don’t worry, I won’t let him talk to the husband alone. Thanks again. Bye.” He hung up.

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m perfectly capable to lead an interrogation myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”   
“As a matter of fact, you do. And now let’s go, because it’s getting late.”   
“Who cares?” Sherlock was already out the door.   
“People who actually sleep at night,” John called after him and closed the door to the flat.

**TBC**


	5. Room with a view

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It makes me happy to see that people seem to like this weird story!
> 
> I know that in reality the morgue and the lab are on different floors, but in this story they are something like adjoining rooms. Otherwise Helen Louise would be excluded from a lot of conversations and we don’t want that, do we?

**Helen Louise’s POV**

_I got my own room with a view now! I would even go so far as to say I got a penthouse, because with housing it’s about three things: Location, location and location. And I got all three of them. My new home is a jar out of glass on the top shelf in the morgue. It’s quite roomy, and since it’s made out of glass, I got a 360 degree view. Molly even placed it so that I cannot only observe everything that’s going on in the morgue, but in the lab as well. She really is a thoughtful soul._

_While relocating me, she told me she’d already bought a dress for John’s wedding. It was yellow. Although I’ve never been a fan of this colour for clothing, I can imagine she’ll look quite pretty in it. If one would suit the colour yellow, it might be Molly Hooper – the sunshine of the morgue. Wow... the alcoholic solution she put me in, seems to have quite an effect on me... getting “poetic” and all..._

The pathologist had worked a long shift yesterday, having to deal with the two murders of the Melrose wedding. She knew Sherlock wanted the results as quickly as possible. And she did so as well. She did not only want to help him, but she was quite curious herself. Who would murder a bride on her wedding day? That was downright cruel!

What really irked her was that she couldn’t identify the weapon Mr Pratt war murdered with. The marks were some she had not seen before on a murder victim. It was not a hammer, not a baseball bat (ok, why should bring someone a baseball bat to a wedding?)... She thought hard about what items were present at a wedding and could be used to beat someone to death. Suddenly she chuckled.

_Why is she laughing? I guess, she’s having morbid thoughts again!_

The brain was quite right, because the pathologist just pictured herself sitting at the Watson wedding and thinking about all the objects there she could kill someone with. Maybe not so good...

She sighed and scribbled something down on the report she was writing. She hated paperwork. But it was part of the job. She had to be extra careful now, because after Sherlock came back from the dead it was obvious that she had identified him wrongly – and everyone with only half a brain would conclude that she had just faked the post mortem. That’s why they were looking at her reports now closely and she had to be hyper correct. It may be annoying, but for her it was a small price to pay for the life of Sherlock Holmes.

“Don’t you think that he’s behaving a little strange lately?” _Is she talking to me?_

As if to prove the brain’s thoughts, Molly looked up at Helen Louise.

_I honestly can’t imagine that he’s been even stranger. And I haven’t known him for a long time, so..._

Molly carried on, “He has always been weird, but since he’s back, there are times, when I think he really notices me, you know?”

_No, not really._

“Like he really meant what he had said.”

_And what would that be?_

But Helen Louise didn’t get an answer. Instead the pathologist only sighed deeply and muttered, “I don’t know,” turned back to the paper on the table and scribbled on.

_Well, that makes two._

Helen Louise could not ponder upon what Molly could have meant, because there was again a visitor. The brain and the pathologist turned simultaneously their gaze towards the doors and while the former could show her happiness openly (because humans could not see it), the latter tried her best to appear indifferent.

_Honey, **he** ’s the one who can convincingly affect indifference, not you! _

Molly smiled shyly. “Hi Sherlock.” He didn’t say a word and as if proving Helen Louise’s theory, his face gave nothing away. Again his Belstaff flew dramatically behind him and his collar was turned up.

_Not that it doesn’t look sexy, but why is he doing it? Does he have a neck as long as a giraffe?_

 The consulting detective walked over to Molly and put a Styrofoam cup down next to her, The pathologist looked up at him surprised. “I didn’t expect you. I don’t have any new results.” He didn’t answer, but stared at some invisible spot on the opposite wall. _This will be interesting…_ Since she didn’t get an answer. She looked suspiciously from the cup to him and back. “Sherlock, what is this?” “Coffee, clearly.” _I have to agree. That was a stupid question, Molly. If you’ve forgotten your brain, here is one!_ “I can see that.” “Then why are you asking?” He turned to look at her with a chiding expression. “Because you never bring me coffee.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What do you want, Sherlock?” His eyes narrowed even more. “Why are you so suspicious? It thought it’s considered nice to bring someone coffee.” The pathologist exhaled loudly. “It is, but you normally don’t do nice. So just tell me what you want, because we both know, I will do it anyway.” It was hard to tell for Helen Louise if Molly was angrier with him or with herself.

_Obviously he only does nice things to manipulate her. And this Sherlock Holmes is **not** nice! _

His face turned into a sulking frown and he sounded like a ratty child, “I have changed since the fall.”

_If you were smugger in summer last year, I don’t think I could’ve liked you…_

All of a sudden all the anger drained Molly’s body and her look got warm, just like her voice. “I know you have.” Helen Louise could see that the pathologist tried to look him in the eyes, but again he kept his gaze fixed at some point on the wall behind her. But suddenly his head snapped down to meet her eyes and the brain wasn’t sure what had caused it. As Helen Louise took a closer look she could see that Molly had taken Sherlock’s hand. _Now I see what had caused his action. To say that he looks taken aback would be the understatement of the year. He doesn’t only seem to be emotionally inept, but chiraptophobic as well – great combination. Someone’s in need of a therapist... or maybe a pathologist?_

The consulting detective stood frozen in place for some time while her thumb drew lazy circles on his knuckles. Then, ever so slowly his hand moved as well and her small one was enfolded by his bigger one. He squeezed it gently and Molly smiled shyly up at him.

_Now would be the perfect time: Ask her out to the wedding! But get your point across this time!_

 Helen Louise could see him swallow – there was clearly a lump in his throat.

_For someone who’s so eloquent all the time it’s fascinating to see him rendered speechless by a small woman…_

 Sherlock opened his mouth and… was interrupted again. This time by his mobile that went off.

_This can’t be true!!!!!_

They jumped apart again and Sherlock retrieved his phone with his hand that had held Molly’s only seconds ago.

“What is it Lestrade?” he barked into the phone. “You know, I prefer to text.” The consulting detective turned away from Molly and was all business again. She turned back to the paperwork and scribbled something down. Helen Louise was sure the pathologist was just doing it to appear busy. She could see her hands shake ever so slightly.   


Sherlock ended the phone call. “I need to go. I’ll be back later to look at the samples.” He turned on his heels. Just as he was about to exit Molly’s words stopped him. “Thanks for the coffee, Sherlock. That was really nice of you.” He didn’t turn around. “You’re welcome.” The gentle undertone in his voice was unmistakable. And then he was gone.  

_The plot thickens..._

**TBC**   



	6. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Since all your comments and messages have been so sweet and you asked me to update soon… As you wish! Let me know what you think! Thanks!

**Billy’s POV**

The last 24 or more hours have been quite typical for living in 221B Baker Street: conversations between Sherlock and John were followed by intense violin playing and hours of silence. Now and then the consulting detective would mutter something to Billy, but usually the skull did not really know what his owner was talking about.

After a more or less sleepless night (for both Billy and Sherlock), the detective had left early, but as far as Billy knew he had not met with John or Lestrade. Maybe be had gone to St. Bart’s to check some samples?

In this periods of waiting (and sometimes Billy had the feeling his whole afterlife consisted of waiting), the skull craved company. Not the one he had in his owner or John Watson or Mrs Hudson, no, someone who would understand him. _It is nice to have occasional chats with heads, hands or eyeballs, but they all come and go. Sooner or later Sherlock’s experiment is over and then they are gone. Sometimes I really wish there would be a constant in my life. Some kind of partner – of the other sex preferably. But it’s hard to find a proper partner when one can’t leave the flat, not even the mantelpiece..._

This time Billy was lucky, because whatever Sherlock had been doing, it didn’t take him too long.

Shortly after his return, John Watson walked in. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, plucking at the strings of his violin, lost in thought. Leisurely John walked into the kitchen, made himself some tea and settled down in his chair, waiting patiently for his friend to return to reality.

Billy often wondered what Sherlock’s mind palace would look like. _I bet it’s an enormous palace with hundreds of rooms, mostly decorated in an elegant, classic way. But I could be totally wrong, because if I’d to guess how his parents were I would have guessed absolutely wrong._

After John had taken some sips of his tea, Sherlock’s mind found his way back. He blinked at his blogger. “For how long have you been here?” “Not long enough that I could read through today’s paper.” Sherlock nodded and placed his violin on the couch table.

John beat on his thighs. “So, what did you think about yesterdays talk to the husband?”

But before Sherlock could answer, the door to the flat opened.

_No, not now, I want hear the latest developments of the case!_

The first thing Billy glimpsed was a tip of an umbrella. _Ah, the dear brother._

“Good morning. As I can see the Mr Watson made himself at home again.” Billy could not fail to note, that the way Mycroft Holmes used to talk always included a slight cold sneer. John looked up at his friend’s brother. “What can I say, I find it quite cosy here.” Mycroft drew a face. “At least one of us. Additionally I know that my brother is glad to have his... friend back.”

_From the last longer conversation the two brothers had had here, I conclude that he was about to say “goldfish”._

“Mycroft, what do you want? I’m on a case, I don’t have time for your boring government stuff.”

Mycroft walked up to stand between the two men. “As a matter of fact I’m here for Doctor Watson.”

Both men drew up their eyebrows.

Mycroft explained, “I wanted to tell Doctor Watson that it’s very unfortunate, but I must decline the invitation to your wedding. Serious business in...” “I didn’t expect you to come,” John interrupted him. Sherlock grinned at that. For a second Mycroft seemed surprised ( _If his face can convey such a thing_ ). But of course he regained his composure right away. “Good, that’s settled then.”

Silence. Chirping of crickets.

Just as Mycroft was about to turn around and leave, he seemed to change his mind and asked, “What about the Melrose case? You haven’t solved it yet?” Sherlock was pissed, “You know I don’t have, so why do you ask?” Mycroft only shrugged. John cleared his throat and joined the conversation. _Probably to keep the brothers from starting a row._

“Sherlock thinks the husband has something to do with it.”   
The detective got up and went to the window. “He’s clearly having an affair with someone from the staff at the venue where the reception was held.”   
John cocked his head to one side and directed his question to the back of his friend at the window, “Why do you think so?”   
That made him turn around. “Because he took care of all the catering stuff. He discussed the menu, the seating and the decoration with the staff.”   
Mycroft offered an explanation, “Maybe he was just trying to be a good future husband and help his fiancée?”   
Sherlock made his trademark don’t-be-silly-face and turned to his blogger.   
“John, what wine will be served at your wedding reception?” John help up his palms in an I-don’t-know-gesture. “See,” Sherlock gestured to John, but looked at his brother.   
Mycroft sighed. _That proved his point._ “If not even a guy as nice as John knows about the wine at his own wedding, Mr Melrose definitely won’t. Except, he had other reasons to visit the staff.”   
John crossed his arms defensively. “I’m not **that** nice.”   
The brothers and Billy answered simultaneously, “Yes you are.”   
The elder Holmes returned his attention to his brother’s former flatmate, “So, is everything arranged for the big day?”   
_Wow, Mr high and mighty is trying to make small talk? Is the world about to end?_  
John was a little taken aback by that as well and so it took a moment before he cleared his throat and answered. “Ah, most of it, yes. And I know that I won’t have lilies of the valley for the flower arrangements.”   
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “Why not? It’s a typical wedding flower.”   
Sherlock spun around to his brother. “How would **you** know?”   
Mycroft glared at his younger brother and John decided to continue before it became worse. “Sherlock was complaining about it at the crime scene, they had lilies of the valley there. He said the flowers weren`t appropriate for the wedding.”   
Sherlock was exasperated for having to explain himself, “Mrs Melrose could hardly choose a flower that stands for virginity and purity. From what we’ve heard from the guests she was neither a virgin nor pure.”   
“Well, then no one could marry in white. Hardly anyone is a virgin when marrying nowadays.”

_John is right. In this day and age there are no ethical values anymore! When my previous owner was still alive, a woman needed to be pure when marrying._

Mycroft’s mouth formed into a mischievous smirk. “How convenient for you, brother dear, **you** could marry in white.”   
Sherlock’s steely composure didn’t falter. “The white colour of the wedding gown has nothing to do with virginity, but it symbolizes the purity of the christening. Do your googeling.”   
Mycroft turned to his brother again and sneered, “If you say so brother dear. You would know that – you’re into that kind of wedding thing now.” The way he said “wedding”, one would think his tongue might hurt pronouncing it. Mycroft flashed his brother another evil grin, bowed slightly and said, “Well then, I’ll leave you to your so called work. Dr Watson. Sherlock, if you want to have a talk before the wedding night, let me know.” Before Sherlock could retort Mycroft and his umbrella had left the flat.  

 

**TBC**


	7. The right kind of flowers

**Helen Louise’s POV**

_I have thought that afterlife would be boring – if there even would be such a thing as an afterlife. My deceased owner has never been very religious and neither have been I, but now that I’ve got the proof that there is a life after death, I need to reverse my thoughts: the life after is so much more interesting than the life I‘ve had with my owner. Forget Eastenders or Coronation Street, **this** is the real soap opera! It doesn’t lack any of its components: we’ve got very different characters, which leads to conflict, we’ve got a murder, suspects and of course a complicated love story. And since I’ve always been a romantic at heart (in the good old days when I’ve still had one...), I’m very much interested in the romantic story arc. Sherlock the consulting detective and Molly the pathologist are like night and day. She’s mousy and shy and he’s a smug genius – oh and he seems to be a sociopath as well (that seems to proof the theory that the good girls always fall for the bad guys...). But then, they are not so different as one might think at first: They are both intelligent, compassionate and oh so weird. They seem to understand each other on some kind of level, no one else understands – at least I don’t. They are having this whole unspoken conversations by just looking at each other. And I’m not even sure if the both of them realise what an exceptional thing that is. _

_It is clear to see that Molly is in love with Sherlock, but with him you have to take a closer look. It may not be as open on display, but it’s clearly there. The way he glances at her when he thinks no one can see, that he’s defended her so vehemently against Dr Winthrop, that he’s brought her coffee, and of course the fact that he wants her to accompany him to John’s wedding. And I’m desperately waiting for the moment he’s finally going to ask her. Apparently he has problems with that, because for all his eloquence, he is quite unable to express his feelings. Ok, he’s not only quite unable, he’s really horrible at it._

_As you can see it’s really interesting here with my odd couple. When thinking about it, they actually are light day and night: She in her lovely nature, being the sunshine to his brooding, closed off shadow..._

_So much concerning “previously on”; and now on with the show..._

Molly had just finished the post mortem of a man in his sixties who had died in St. Bart’s. It had been a heart attack – no third party negligence, which meant little paperwork. As much as she loved working on cases that presented a puzzle, the paperwork that came with it was tedious to say the least. Molly had washed her hands and was about to return to her desk, when she heard someone entering. Without turning around she knew who the two visitors where – she would recognise their footsteps anytime, anywhere. “Hello you two!” she called over her shoulder, before turning around.

_Great, the genius and his conscience are back – hopefully they’ve got news about the case._

When Helen Louise looked at the two men, something felt peculiar. At first she couldn’t really place it, but then the penny dropped: It hadn’t been their usually choreographed entrance. Normally Sherlock would stride in with flying Belstaff and John would follow behind. Now it was vice versa: John entering the morgue first and Sherlock following suit – almost hesitant with his hands behind his back.

As Molly turned to them, she seemed to have the same thoughts as the brain, because her brows furrowed for a second. But she seemed to dismiss the thoughts immediately, because her face settled into the usual friendly Molly-expression.

John greeted the pathologist and went to stand beside her. Sherlock didn’t say a word ( _no change there…_ ) and stayed close to the counter where Helen Louise was stored. He stood there with his hands behind his back. The brain had come to understand that this was his usual posture: straight back, hands behind his back, but something about it felt awkward today – his stance being more stiff than usual.

Molly immediately noticed as well and looked a little concerned at the consulting detective, but kept her voice cheerful, “What can I do for you today?” John turned expectantly to Sherlock, who did not budge. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. So his friend explained, “He told me he needed to see the body of Mr Pratt once more. He got that excited look, he gets when, you know... But as soon as we entered St. Bart’s he… got like that.“ The blogger gestured a little helpless in the direction of Sherlock.

Molly looked from one man to the other. “Okay… did he say why he…” but she couldn’t finish her sentence, because all of a sudden the consulting detective came back to reality and ordered, “Molly, I need to see the body of Mr Pratt.” The pathologist jumped a little at the sudden command, but went over to where the corpses were stored and pulled Mr Pratt out. While John went over to her and she pulled the white sheet off the body, Helen Louise caught a glimpse at Sherlock Holmes putting something on the counter. _That’s why he kept his hands behind his back – he hid something there!_

Then he went over to his friends and leaned over the body of Mr Pratt. A content smile formed on his face and he almost exclaimed, “I knew it!“ „What?“ John and Molly asked in unison. Sherlock didn’t answer but leaned at little closer over the body to have a better look. John sighed irritated, “We all know that you are the brightest brain in the room…“

_I wouldn’t count on that!_

“… so would you possibly be so kind as to let the normal people in the room know what is going on in that brain of yours?”

_I’d still like to have dinner with his brain…_

Sherlock stood back up and explained, “Mr Pratt was killed with a frying pan. It must have been someone working in the kitchen.”

John didn’t quite follow his line of thinking. “Why? Just because the murder weapon was stored there?”

Sherlock didn’t need to say, “Don’t be stupid,” because his looked conveyed that just fine. “No, because for someone working in the kitchen it would’ve been easy to poison the soup of the bride without someone noticing. We need to check their alibis.”

“Lestrade already did that. No one in working in the kitchen behaved suspiciously. And no one had a motive.”

The consulting detective retreated from the corpse and rolled his eyes as his friend. “You and your motives… This is all psychological nonsense. Maybe they were just killed for fun.”

John put his hands on his hips. “You don’t mean that. And even if so, even ‘fun’ counts as motive.”

Molly had a suggestion of her own, “Maybe it had something to do with love and jealousy?”

Now Sherlock really was irritated, “Why is everyone getting sentimental, just because the murder happened on a wedding?”

_Well, because a wedding is about love – at least in our society..._

Molly fixed her shoes with her stare. John considered Sherlock with a scolding look.

_Yes, shame on you, Mr Holmes! That is no way to treat the woman you want to ask out!_

When Sherlock did not react, John let his hands drop to the side, sighed deeply and asked, “Fine, so you’re saying we need to talk to the kitchen staff.”

“Yes.”

To keep herself busy, Molly put Mr Pratt back where he belonged, while Sherlock stared expectantly at his friend.

“Well, John, what are you waiting for?”

The blogger was confused, “I’m waiting for you...”   
“Go ahead and get us a cap. I’ll see you outside.” John looked even more baffled, but Sherlock’s voice left no room for argument. Then realization flit across John’s face and he averted his gaze from Sherlock to look over at Molly. His lips drew into a knowing smile. He turned back to his friend. “Fine. See you outside.” Before he exited Helen Louise could see that the smile on John’s face had become a massive grin.

Molly had been too busy concentrating on her task that she hadn’t overheard the conversation between the consulting detective and his friend, so she was quite surprised that Sherlock was still standing behind her when she turned around. She looked at him, waiting for him to spit out his next order. When none came, she asked tentatively, “Sherlock, is there something else I can do for you?”   
He looked at her as if he’d only now realized that she was in the room as well.

_God, has he some place where his mind always retreats to? Whatever it is, it must be highly interesting there..._

He did not answer her, but had a question of his own, “Where is Helen Louise? You’ve already dissected her?“

_Oh, he remembers me!_

Molly seemed a little suspicious about the change of topic, but answered none the less, „No, we were able to close the case without cutting her into pieces, which I was glad for, because I think she’s quite a pretty example of a brain.”

_Thank you! I don’t want to seem smug, but I have to agree with you: I think I’m quite pretty._

“So, I put her up there.” Molly pointed to the shelf where Helen Louise was stored. “I thought, she’d like it up there.”

_Yes, I do!_

Sherlock only shrugged and nodded as if it would be perfectly normal to have a conversation like that. And Helen Louise figured, for them it was – it was probably their version of small talk. “That’s why I put Billy on the mantelpiece.” Now it was Molly’s turn to nod in understanding.

_Oh Billy! I’d really love to meet him. Could you arrange a blind-date?_

There was a pause and again Helen Louise had the feeling that the two humans had a whole conversation without saying a word.

_I know you want to ask her about the wedding. Just do it!_

Sherlock looked intently at the petite pathologist and she started to squirm under his gaze and bit her lower lip.

_That seems to be a nervous habit of hers._

He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess...,” he raked a hand though his dark curls.

_And that’s **his** nervous habit. _

A strand of his hair fell into his face and Helen Louise could see Molly’s hand twitch. It was not hard to conclude that the pathologist had to control the impulse to brush the lock out of his face. The brain could sympathize with that.

“I guess,” he started again, “I’ll go then. John is waiting.”

Molly looked up to him though her lashes. “I guess so. I’ll see you around?” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Yes.” There was something in his voice that Helen Louise couldn’t place. Was it desperation, disappointment? Whatever it was, it made not only the brain curious, but Molly as well, because her eyes widened at his word. He nodded, as if to himself, turned on his heels and off he went.

_Nooooo! You can’t just leave, you coward! You’ve got unfinished business here. And you forget your box on the counter, it… No wait… can it be? He didn’t forget it. He left in on purpose! Molly! Molly! Come over here!_

Of course the pathologist didn’t listen to the brain. Instead she closed her eyes for a moment, shook her head and drew a long frustrated breath. Her shoulders slumped a little.

Although the pathologist could not hear the brain, Helen Louise was lucky, because Molly had left her clipboard at the counter and so she went over to retrieve it. Just when she was about to grab it, Molly noticed the elongated box. She drew it towards her. “MOLLY” was written on it in an elegant scrawl and Helen Louise figured it was Sherlock’s handwriting.

_Open it! I’m dying (again…) with excitement!_

Way too slowly for Helen Louise’s taste, Molly opened the box carefully. Both, the brain and the pathologist gasped when they saw what it contained: There was a white chrysanthemum and an orange gerbera daisy in it and a note saying: “These are the right flowers for you.”

Molly’s finger that traced the writing on the card was shaking slightly, while above her Helen Louise was enjoying the developments of her real-afterlife-soap-opera immensely.

_Stay tuned!_  

**TBC**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Don’t worry an explanation for the meaning of the flowers will follow. And thank you for all your comments and kudos!


	8. With a little help from my skull

**Billy’s POV**

_So far my afterlife has always reminded me of the detective stories published in the „Strand Magazine“ when I was still with my previous owner. Some cases seemed to hold a strong similarity to it (or I imagine it, because it’s been a long time since I’ve read one of those stories...) and that’s why I’ve liked being dead in 221B Baker Street so far, because I’ve enjoyed theses stories very much. But lately the crime stories seemed to have morphed into a sappy romance novel (the wife of my previous owner loved to read Jane Austen!), or even worse: into one of those horrible soap operas John’s former girlfriends liked to watch. You don’t know what I’m talking about? Let me tell you: John finding true love (with a **woman**!), Sherlock coming back from the dead (I wouldn’t have been surprised if everything with Moriarty had just been a bad dream and one day John would walk into the bathroom and find Sherlock alive and happy in the shower...), John getting married, Sherlock folding serviettes and now **this**! _

Billy was used to Sherlock’s bizarre talking that seemed to be incoherent and only the consulting detective knew what it all meant – if it meant anything at all. _Sometimes I highly doubt that!_ But now the skull was really worried about the mental health of his flat mate, because he was pacing the room, hands behind his back (the fingers nervously fumbling there) and pretending that Billy the skull was a woman. At least that’s what Billy could conclude so far, because Sherlock was more stammering than forming coherent sentences. And that sounded like that: “You remember that time I was in the morgue, ... no... she wouldn’t know to which time I’m referring to. You know, the day Mrs Melrose came in I was in the morgue, and... of course I was in the morgue, there was a body coming is... When you were humming the Bridal Chorus, I had to think... No! ... Molly, on the day... Oh sod it!” Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation and then went to lean his head against the mantelpiece; his curls almost touching Billy. One didn’t need to be a detective to deduce that Sherlock was distressed because of the petite pathologist.   


_So, he does acknowledge that he has feelings for her! Hallelujah! But what’s the problem then? Just ask her out, she’s head over heels for you, just... Oh I see, that’s exactly the problem. You have no idea how to proceed about it, do you? You are even more emotionally inept than me – and I am dead!_

Sherlock stood back up, exhaled loudly and resumed his pacing. This time it wasn’t as frantic as before and Billy could see in the determined expression of his owner that he was about to form some plan. The skull knew that it would take Sherlock two or three more walks from the door to the window and back, until he would let him into his plan. And that was exactly what happened.

“I can’t do this at the morgue, Billy. I’ve tried, but we get interrupted all the time. And one would think there are only dead bodies there… God, sometimes I hate living people!”

_I totally agree. A morgue is not a suitable place to ask out a woman – not even for a high functional sociopath and a pathologist. Although my friend seems to have other reasons for choosing another location than the morbid background... And about hating living people: I agree as well, they are just… animated._

“However, I need to find a way to talk to her outside of Bart’s, without being too obvious. I mean, I could use my bolthole, but I really don’t feel comfortable with the idea of being in her bedroom when she declines, that would be a bit embarrassing... for both of us, don’t you think?”

_All of a sudden you are insecure, you smug bastard? She won’t tell you no, she... wait... what?! Her bedroom? Did I miss something here? What bolthole?_

But before Billy could ask more questions the consulting detective went on without answering one of them. “On the other hand it will be equally embarrassing if she will decline and we’ll meet at the wedding. But then, there are a lot of people, I could probably avoid her quite easily. Didn’t say John that the maid of honour was thrilled to meet me?”

_Oh, don’t you dare, Mr Holmes! Making poor Molly Hooper jealous by flirting with another woman!_

“No, if I think about it... she already sounds tedious. And that would be... a bit not nice, wouldn’t it?”

_YES!!!!!_

“Well, where can I ask Molly if she wants to attend the wedding with me? Somewhere where she feels at ease... She seems a lot more relaxed around me now and she even gave up stammering, can you imagine!” He stopped the pacing for a moment and looked at Billy questioningly.

_I noticed the last time she helped you with the case – I was quite baffled. I like confident Molly._

As if answering his question himself, Sherlock said, “Yes, she is a lot more confident now. It suits her...” His stare got distant for a while and Billy was sure Sherlock was revisiting some encounter with the pathologist in his mind palace. Billy had the suspicion that Molly’s room there had grown quite a bit in the last two and a half years. _I wonder what colour the walls have. Probably yellow – like sunshine._

All of a sudden Sherlock’s head snapped up to Billy and he had the glint in his eyes he always got when finding the solution to a problem. Sherlock’s lips curled into a satisfied smile and Billy knew Molly Hooper was doomed – in the best of ways.

**TBC**


	9. Photo evidence

**Helen Louise’s POV**

As it had turned out, Helen Louise was not the only one who thought Molly represented the sunshine in Sherlock’s life, because he seemed to think so too. Why else would he choose an orange gerbera daisy for her that meant: “You are my sunshine” and “with you everything becomes beautiful”? But Helen Louise liked the meaning behind the white chrysanthemum even more: purity, honesty, truth and she remembered once reading an article about the symbolism of flowers that said white chrysanthemum meant “there are many layers to you and as soon as I think I have figured you out, I’ll find something new.” Helen Louise very much liked that and thought that it was a very true statement about Dr Molly Hooper.

_Sherlock could have chosen roses or lilies for her – something classic bordering on cliché – but he chose not to. Those two flowers are so much more personal._

Helen Louise didn’t know if Molly knew the meaning behind the flowers, but she had seemed very touched none the less. So touched, that even a small tear had made its way down her cheek. And the brain had to agree, it had been an unbelievably sweet gesture. It showed that he paid attention to her and thought about her. Something one might not consider when you saw him interacting with her. But then again, he seemed ignorant of John as well and Helen Louise was sure they were friends – if not best friends.  
Helen Louise was sure the flowers had a special place somewhere in her flat.

_Mr Belstaff may not be good with expressing his feelings with words, but in his case I’d say: Action speaks louder than words. And how loud – it’s almost deafening! Still, I have the feeling that Molly needs him to articulate his attraction to her. There seems to be a lot of baggage between them – like there has been severe hurting in the past. From my point of view (which is above all – literally) Molly is afraid to trust the nice side of Sherlock. And the way he was giving her the cold shoulder between his nice moments, I can fully sympathise with her. From what Molly has said to him when he has brought her coffee, he has been lovely before, but only to manipulate her. Maybe that was what he has meant, when he has said, “I have changed since the fall.” Maybe he has used to do that until summer, but something has happened in fall that has changed his opinion about her – or himself? That’s the problem with a real-life-soap-opera: I can only speculate and can’t be sure to get a satisfying conclusion._

When Molly returned to the lab after her lunch break, she found the consulting detective and his blogger there. She stopped dead in her tracks and Helen Louise could see clearly that she made an effort not to blush when she saw Sherlock – certainly remembering the flowers.

_I swear, I told them numerous times that they’re not allowed in here without you, but they didn’t listen!_

Sherlock was looking at some samples through the microscope, while John sat at the opposite table looking at photographs. “Hey you two! You know, you’re not allowed in here without me.” It was clear that she was addressing solely Sherlock, who chose to ignore her. Instead John answered, “Hi Molly. I’m sorry, but you know…” His eyes indicated towards Sherlock, and Molly exhaled loudly. She walked over to John. “What are you looking at?” “The pictures of the Melrose wedding.” “Oh lovely! Let me see.” Just as Molly was about to grab one, the impatient baritone of the man at the microscope was heard, “I’ve already told John that he won’t find the murderer in the photographs. I’ve deduced all of them. She’s not in one of them.” He did not look up from his microscope. John defended himself, “Yes, but maybe we’ll find a clue.” The brain could see Sherlock rolling his eyes, but he chose to stay silent.

_Just because you haven’t found the solution yet, doesn’t mean you need to be a pain in the arse!_

Molly was looking through a few photos, when suddenly something caught her attention. She took a closer look at one. From her perspective Helen Louise could not see what was on the picture. Molly laid the photograph down on the table again and sighed deeply. “It’s sad, somehow.” “What is?” John asked beside her. “There are really nice flower arrangements everywhere, but no picture where you see the bridal bouquet. She must have thrown it right after the service or directly when coming to the reception. Too bad, I would’ve liked to know what it looked like.”

Suddenly a chair creaked. Sherlock had gotten up and after three long strides he was towering over the pathologist and his friend. He looked alert and excited – no comparison to the bored expression he had worn only seconds ago. His eyes drifted from the photographs to Molly. In a swift motion he took her face in both of his hands and leaned down to her – their foreheads almost touching, their eyes staring into one another. Helen Louise could see that Molly’s chest wasn’t moving. She had stopped breathing. Sherlock’s voice was as excited as Helen Louise had ever heard it, “I could kiss you, Molly Hooper.” _Then do it, you brilliant idiot!_ “Sometimes a woman’s sentiment can be useful.” _Now that somehow ruined it…_

He let his thumbs gently brush over her cheeks, and then as abruptly as he had taken her face in his hands, he let go of it, turned around and walked towards the entrance.

Molly finally drew the breath she had been holding. John and Helen Louise stared quizzically from the pathologist to the leaving consulting detective. While Helen Louise seemed to be a bit in the same trance as Molly Hooper, John Watson shook his head, regained his composure, collected the scattered photographs quickly and hurried to join his friend at the door.

On his way out Sherlock called over his shoulder, “The case will be closed by the evening. I’ll need a brain by then.”

As soon as the two men had left, the pathologist drew a calming breath. Her face was still flushed. Helen Louise watched with sympathy as Molly reached up and attentively glided her fingers over one cheek where Sherlock had touched her. She smiled as if to herself.

_No wonder, she thinks she is alone in the room…_

Then Molly glanced in the direction of Helen Louise and mumbled, “I think, I’ve got the perfect one for you, Sherlock Holmes.”

_What?!_

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your lovely support. You rock! Just though you know: After this one there will be 2 more chapters and then… the end.  
> I know there are quite a number of different meanings to certain flowers out there and they vary in different countries. I got the ones I used from an Austrian book about flower symbolism and I really thought it fitting.


	10. All eyes on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No copyright infringement intended. I own nothing, although I’ve got to say I feel quite protective of Helen Louise and Billy, since I gave them a voice. And I think it’s safe to say that Steve the eyeball is MINE! (Sorry, True Blood takes its toll…)

**Helen Louise’s POV**

_It is cold and dark – no, it’s not cold, but it sounds so much more thrilling that way… It’s only dark, but that is enough to make me anxious. I’ve really enjoyed the soap opera, as long as I’ve been a passive recipient, but I’ve never wanted to be an active participant – at least not like that!_

_At some point in the late afternoon, Molly has gotten a text ( I don’t know from whom). She has only smiled in my direction and I have known from the start, that I didn’t like that smile at all. And I have been right. The pathologist has put me into a cardboard box and has closed the lid. That has been the last thing I could’ve seen, because since then it has been absolute darkness. I could feel that she was carrying me and I could deduce (a word I learned from Sherlock) that we have been in a taxi and then had gone up some stairs. Then we have stopped for a moment, before she has started walking again. And now… now we stop again._

The lid was opened and Helen Louise could see again. Momentarily she was blinded by the light. The brain could feel herself being lifted and as Molly took her out of the cardboard box, Helen Louise could get a small glimpse of her surroundings: she seemed to be in some kind of kitchen in a flat. But the kitchen looked more like a lab than a kitchen. Unfortunately the brain didn’t have a lot of time to have a look around, because she heard the door to the fridge being opened, and then it was dark again.

**_Now_ ** _it is dark **and** cold! Just great… _

Luckily Helen Louise was not surrounded by complete darkness this time. There was a blue light right next to the thermostat, which cast the interior of the fridge into an alien light. Slowly Helen Louise adjusted to the semi-darkness. She looked around. And then a wave of foul smell hit her. 

“What’s that smell?” she asked herself and was surprised when she got an answer, “That’s me. I got burned and then dropped in tea.” Helen Louise turned in the direction of the voice and could make out an... _Is this an eyeball?! But what is an eyeball doing in a fridge. Okay, I’m here as well..._

In her initial shock Helen Louise almost forgot her manner. “Hello. I’m Helen Louise.” “Hello beauty! My name is Steve,” he said a little too saucy. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” _I’m not so sure if I really think it’s nice – but manners!_ “What are you?” _Obviously someone else has forgotten his manners!_

“Excuse me?! What kind of question is that? I mean, you’re an eyeball, you can see that I am a brain.” “I am an **ocular bulb** ,” he corrected her. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything. Because like I’ve already said, I got burned and dropped in tea.” Instantaneously Helen Louise regretted her harsh words. She took a closer look at the eye ball ( _no, ocular bulb!_ ). He really looked horrible – quite deformed. The burning was severe. “Oh my God, who did this to you?” “This Sherlock guy.”

There was pause, in which the brain looked horrified. Then the ocular bulb went on, in an overly brave voice ( _he’s showing off_ ), “But I gladly sacrificed myself in the course of science.” Helen Louise couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice, “I’m sure you did.” “So, you are a brain?” “Yes.” “I’ve heard brainy was the new sexy.” If Helen Louise still had eyes she would have rolled them. _And if I’d still have feet I would walk over and roll him around…_ “I’ve heard so too.” “Well, lucky me.” Steve did some twitching and the brain was sure, he was trying to wink at her. _That looks really creepy!_

“So, how come you’re here? Tell me your story. I’m all ears… or eyes.” Steve asked/joked. _That was so not funny…_ “I don’t really know, to be honest. The pathologist Molly Hooper brought me here, but I don’t know why.” “I’ve heard about her. She seems quite nice.” Steve made a small pause, as if deciding to tell her the next part. When he had made up his mind he continued, “She brought you here for experiments, clearly.” Helen Louise paled. “I don’t think she’s nice anymore...” Steve tried to cheer her up, “It’s not as bad as you might think! It’s all for a higher cause!”

The brain was tempted to say something like, “Not as bad... Did you have a look in the mirror lately?!” but figured it would be more than a bit rude – that would be almost Sherlock-ian.

_Sod the higher cause! I want back into the morgue!_

Helen Louise could see the irony of the situation: Sherlock Holmes, who had been her hero in shining Belstaff when she first met him, would now be the one to end her afterlife…

_But wait... if Sherlock is doing experiments here and..._

“Steve, does this mean we’re in the flat of Sherlock Holmes?”

“The one and only 221B Baker Street, the most famous address in London.” “I highly doubt it.” Steve chuckled. All of a sudden Helen Louise got excited and the eyeball wondered why.

“Do you happen to know a skull called Billy?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as level as possible. “Yes sure. He lives on the mantelpiece.” Although Steve could not see Helen Louise’s happiness, he detected it somehow. His tone got suspicious, “Why?” “Oh, just... I’ve heard from him.” “How come?” But before the brain had the chance to answer, Sherlock’s muffled voice was heard through the door of the fridge, “Why did you put it in the fridge?“ “You were in your mind palace, and where else should I store a brain?” was Molly’s answer.

Helen Louise and Steve heard footsteps approaching. The door was opened and the two “experiments” were greeted by the curly head of Sherlock Holmes. He reached for Helen Louise and she heard Steve say, “I’ll be waiting for you. Be strong!”

With the brain in hands Sherlock turned around, closed the fridge and now Helen Louise could see the whole flat. The interior was more than peculiar, but somehow cozy. She spotted Molly standing by the chairs in the sitting room, nervously biting her lower lip and following Sherlock’s every move. He walked straight over to the mantelpiece and that was when Helen Louise first laid eyes on Billy the skull.

_He looks exactly like I thought he would!_

 

**TBC**


	11. Billouise & Sherlolly

**Billy’s POV**

Billy the skull had never believed in love at first sight, but the moment he saw **that** brain, he just knew – that was her! That was the companion he had been waiting for! That was the one to fill the emptiness in his head.

Sherlock put the glass with the brain next to him and walked over to sit himself in his chair. He gestured Molly to sit down in John’s chair and although she still looked a little nervous and confused she followed his invitation.

Billy looked over to the brain. _Can it be? Is she blushing?_ The skull introduced himself, “Good evening, my name is Billy.” If he would’ve had a hat, he would have tipped it. Her voice was like music in his ears, “I’m Helen Louise, it’s nice to meet you.” “What a lovely name, for a lovely brain.” _Now she’s definitely blushing._  
  


There was a pause. None of the two pairs in the room was saying anything, both being unsure how to proceed.   


Helen Louise was the first to break the silence, “So, you’re living here with Sherlock? And you’re his… assistant?” “Yes, we live here. I’m not really his assistant, John is his assistant, but I’d say I’m the one he uses to discuss his cases with.” _Oh my… Am I rambling?!_ “So you help him finding theories and figuring it out?” “I guess one could say so. And who knows, now that I have a brain, he might even consider me as his assistant.” Helen Louise giggled. “I know what you mean. Humans tend to think we’re incomplete, just because we lack some parts.” “Exactly!” Billy agreed. That was the moment, when the human pair in the room started a conversation as well.

“So, the case is closed then?” “Clearly.” “And who…” “It was the waitress.” Molly’s questioning gaze made Sherlock continue, and even though he tried to look bored, he could not fool Billy, who knew that Sherlock loved to show off – especially in front of his pathologist. “For me the husband has been suspicious from the beginning on. As it turned out, he had an affair with the waitress, that’s why he was ‘arranging’ all the catering stuff himself. The waitress was obviously jealous and after the wedding she knew that even if he would have agreed to a divorce, she would have to wait at least for 6 months. Because it’s mandatory to be married for at least 6 months, before you can get a divorce. And by killing the bride, there was no waiting for her. As for Mr Pratt: Like I’ve said his killing had been a spur of the moment thing. He caught his son in law having sex with the waitress in the cold store. He was a witness, so she needed to get rid of him.”

Molly thought about it for a moment. “He was having sex with another woman on his own wedding?! That bastard! That puts cheating onto a whole new level.” The pathologist was scandalized. “Yeah, I guess the bride would have taken it pretty badly, would she have found out…”

_Please don’t say something like, “Maybe it’s better for her that she has been killed” now. Please don’t Sherlock._

Although it seemed as if his owner wanted to continue, he seemed to listen to his skull and didn’t say any more.

Apparently Molly was not satisfied with Sherlock’s explanation so far, because she had more questions, “So, the waitress poisoned the bride and beat her father to death. But how did you figure out it was her and where did she get the lilies of the valley?” A Cheshire cat grin appeared on Sherlock’s face. “Actually **you** figured it out for me.” Molly didn’t need to articulate the “What?” because her face conveyed it just fine. So he went on, “When you were looking at the wedding pictures, you noticed that the bridal bouquet was nowhere to be seen and that the throwing of said bouquet must have taken place quite early. Given the fact that the flower arrangement was dominated by lilies of the valley, it was clear that the bridal bouquet would contain those flowers as well – probably been made solely with lilies of the valley. So I only had to find out who had caught the bouquet. And as it turned out it had been the waitress. Everyone had been quite baffled about that and some even saw it as affront that someone of the staff would get the bridal bouquet.” He shrugged as if that would somehow amuse him. “I wouldn’t have thought about the lack of the bouquet, but you did. Hence most of the credit goes to you.” Molly smiled shyly.   


_Well done, Miss Hooper! And now Sherlock, ask her the question you’ve wanted to ask her since…_

Molly’s voice was low. “I’m glad I could help.” “You always help me.” The honesty was not only prominent in his voice, but in his eyes as well. Molly could not stand his mesmerizing gaze and looked down on the floor when she changed the subject, “So, what kind of experiment is this?”

_Does she even realize how loaded with subtext that question is? I mean, is she talking about us or them?_ But I can tell you one thing: _Don’t you dare use **my** brain for an experiment, Sherlock Holmes! _

For a split second Billy was sure he could see disappointment on Sherlock’s face; maybe because Molly had changed the subject. He got up, looked at the mantelpiece and shrugged.

“I just thought, it’s time for Helen Louise and Billy to meet.”

“I see.” Molly nodded in understanding, got up as well and Billy the skull drew a calming breath, because he knew no one would experiment with Helen Louise.

A pregnant pause followed.

The skull and the brain could almost hear the air in the flat crackling.

“Molly...” “Sherlock...” Both began in unison. The pathologist drew a shaking breath that sounded like a muffled nervous giggle. She was fidgeting with her hands and her eyes jumped from Sherlock’s face to the floor and back. He gestured her to go first. To Billy’s surprise she did and her voice wasn’t as small as the skull would have thought. “I just wanted to say... thank you... for the flowers. I really like them.” “Good. Lily of the valley is just too cliché for you.” The flat way he stated it stood in stark contrast to the meaning behind his words. And maybe that was why finally Molly dared to look him straight in the eyes and take a step towards him.

_Oh my God, can it be? Is Sherlock nervous?_

She eyed him curiously and this time it was **his** turn to feel uncomfortable under **her** gaze.

Her voice was soft, as if she were talking to a wounded animal – careful not to scare it away, “Sherlock, the day I wanted to dissect Helen Louise, we were talking about John’s wedding.” “Yes.” His voice was even deeper than usual. “And I had the feeling that... I mean, ... we were somehow interrupted...” her voice trailed off uncertainly.

_Ah, so he’s already tried to ask her out..._

He cleared his throat.

“Yes, I wanted to ask you... maybe...” He raked a hand through is hair and just as Billy thought the consulting detective was about to speak again, he closed his mouth and took Molly’s hand in his instead. He turned her small one around in his big one and gazed at it, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. The three others in the room could only stare at him in utter confusion. Sherlock gently squeezed her hand and turned towards the mantelpiece again, but kept her hand firmly in his. He looked in the direction of the skull and the brain, standing there side by side just like him and the pathologist. Molly’s gaze followed his. Sherlock’s voice appeared to be calm, but Billy could trace the uncertainty in it, and he knew Molly could as well. “Don’t you think they would make a good couple?” Molly’s eyes met his in the mirror above Billy and Helen Louise – full of warmth and happiness. “Yes, Sherlock, I think they would be perfect together.”

Billy heard a happy sigh beside him and turned to see Helen Louise avert her gaze from the human couple, just as Sherlock leaned down to capture Molly’s lips. Billy locked eyes with Helen Louise and he could only agree: _Yes, we are perfect together._

 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading, alters and all the lovely comments. I’m so glad you’ve shared this weird ride with me, because I really had a lot of fun writing this. It felt a little bit like Toy Story with dead things :-) So, I’d like to know what you thought of the ending – even if you didn’t like it. Cheers!
> 
> If anybody is interested: I did not make up all of the case. Some of it actually happened last year in Austria: A man cheated on his with during their wedding with the waitress and was caught by his father in law. And since it’s mandatory to be married for at least 6 months to get a divorce in Austria, the bride could not even get divorced right away… Isn’t that absurd??!!!


End file.
